


out of the ashes, we burn

by dats__gayyy, queerio_gaymer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, I leave this without comment, as of now I’m sure I’ll have a lot to say later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-09-15 11:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dats__gayyy/pseuds/dats__gayyy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerio_gaymer/pseuds/queerio_gaymer
Summary: Evelyn Trevelyan does not become the Herald of Andraste. But she is swept up in the Inquisition nonetheless.





	1. Chapter 1

Evelyn Trevelyan does not become the Herald of Andraste. She is a scant few miles away when the explosion hits, near enough that her ears ring afterwards. The hole in the sky glows ominously, swirling outwards. She is drawn in like moth to a flame.

 

The destruction is a waking nightmare, as if she’s walked into the Fade. The soldiers she encounters have all but abandoned their posts, running terrified or else staggering in a stupor. The sky is dark with smoke. Demons wander the mountainside, corpses littering the path. 

 

As she grows closer to what she hears called the Breach, her head begins to pound. By the time the crumbling hollows of the Temple of Sacred Ashes is in view, her breath is ragged, vision blurred. Evelyn has prided herself on her control of her magic, gained at the edge of sacrifice. But there is something cursed here, something beyond her resolve or the Circle’s teachings. 

 

She leans heavily on her staff and picks her way back down the path. She does not make it far before a blur appears, moving quickly. It is a horse and rider, and as they near Evelyn determines it is a scout, though she does not know for whom. He is slight, Elven, and to his credit he is unflinching, steady gaze combing the area for life. 

 

“It is not safe here,” he tells her, halting his mount and eying her critically. It is an assessing look, not a harsh one, and Evelyn figures they are equally wary of each other - a rogue mage cannot trust nor be trusted. 

 

Evelyn glances at the scar in the sky. “It’s not safe anywhere.” Her voice grates. 

 

The scout stares down at her a long moment. He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by a scream. 

 

Farther up the path, what can only be described as a tear is writhing in the air, bright green. Out of it crawls two Shade demons, attracted by the sound of the startled soldier below, who trembles and fumbles for his sword. 

 

The scout mutters something, reaching for the quiver strung around his back. The demons surround the soldier, who strikes at one only to be pushed back by the other. 

 

An arrow cuts through the air as Evelyn takes a steadying breath. She feels queasy, but forces the feeling back, away until she is nothing and all that is left is elemental.

 

The lightning arcs, ricocheting between the two Shades. A volley of arrows thud into one’s chest, and the soldier takes advantage to plunge his sword deep into its being, felling it. The other demon swarms, swiping at the soldier’s back. He falls with a strangled cry. 

 

The scout knocks an arrow and takes quick careful aim, landing a shot between the demon’s eyes. It recoils, shrieking, and the next arrow slices through its open mouth. Evelyn loses count of how many arrows the scout ultimately fills it with, but she thinks two or three more land as she hurries nearer. 

 

The soldier lies crumpled in the snow. He is moaning lowly, so still alive at least, though the amount of red that surrounds him is alarming. 

 

Evelyn’s head spins as she kneels and gathers her magic. It isn’t fair, truly, that the trickiest of spells are those that restore life rather than take it away, but Evelyn has long since discarded fairness in favor of skill. 

 

She reaches out, laying a shaking hand on mangled armor. Her sight blackens around the edges, but she focuses on the flow of energy from beyond her, through her. 

 

The soldier silences, and for the briefest of moments Evelyn is suspended in dread. But then he starts sobbing, murmuring his thanks over and over again. 

 

That is the sound Evelyn loses consciousness to,as white and red and green fade to black. 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Evelyn doesn’t dream.

 

She can feel the mental tug of spirits attempting to reach out to her, the demonic murmurings on the edge of her consciousness.

 

One particular presence nears, breath cold on Evelyn’s ear, but Evelyn cannot make out the words it whispers.

 

She wakes, shivering, to the bustle of a small forward camp. The cot she’s lying in creaks as she shifts. It alerts the soldiers seated around the fire nearby, who immediately hush and exchange looks.

 

“Where am I?” Evelyn asks, because there seems little point in asking anything else. And she’s too exhausted for pleasantries, besides.

 

After a brief hesitation, one of them speaks. “A camp outside of Haven.”

 

She’d been brought back down the mountain, then. “Why?”

 

“Because,” a voice behind her answers dryly, “Had I left you there you would have died.” It’s the same scout from before. An elf, she realizes now, with intricate markings that trace the lines of his cheekbones- Dalish, then. He regards her with a calculating stare, none of the nervousness of his fellow soldiers in either his tone or his gaze.

 

Evelyn knows better than to find his familiarity comforting, though she wants to.

 

“That would be a poor way to return the favor of you saving one of ours,” he adds, reading her lack of response as the defensiveness it is.

 

“And who,” Evelyn asks, dark eyes sweeping over them all, “are you?”

 

There’s a moment of quiet as all their eyes flit to the mountaintop, where the giant rift writhes in the sky. 

 

“...We serve the interests of the Divine.”

 

The interests of a leader who, save a miracle orchestrated by the Maker himself, died in the explosion at the Conclave. The soldiers don’t appear to be Templars, and most certainly are not Chantry frocks. The intrigue prickles Evelyn’s imagination, the corner of her mind that had grown restless since she’d left the Ostwick Circle.

 

_ (“Politics will be your downfall, Trevelyan,”  _ a Senior Enchanter had told her once. Evelyn had demurred, but -- look where politics had gotten the Circle.)

 

“The Divine had many interests,” Evelyn says carefully. She glances around the camp to find her staff, which is atop a makeshift table littered with maps and parchment. It feels a world away. “All of which become vastly more difficult to achieve, given...recent events.”

 

Brokering peace between the rebelling mages and heavy-handed Templars, with a nattering and fractious Chantry in the background? An impossible feat, truly.

 

The elf says nothing at first, though his brow furrows, forest-green eyes growing thoughtful. 

 

“Perhaps,” he replies simply, divulging nothing. Much to the mage’s disappointment.

 

Evelyn stands, and notes the wary fidgeting of the seated soldiers. There’s a spike of anxiety in her gut at that, and the resulting hum of potential magic in her fingertips.

 

“Am I a prisoner?” She tries for non-combative, but her voice still carries an edge.

 

“No.” 

 

The ‘servants of the Divine’s interests’ exchange silent, pointed looks. One of the soldiers, young and sandy-haired, scrambles up and haltingly retrieves her staff, holding it out reluctantly. Evelyn takes it, expression neutral but relief rushing through her the moment it’s within her possession once again.

 

“You are free to go. Although,” the scout pauses, gesturing down the mountain. “Haven is the only village for quite some distance, should you need a place to prepare for your travels.”

 

It’s worth consideration. Evelyn has little beyond her staff and the sparsely-filled pack slung over her shoulder. She hadn’t planned on striking so far afield on her own. 

 

Evelyn is uncertain what her answer would have been, had the question ended there. But it doesn’t, for better or worse.

 

“S-ser Vaelin!”

 

Evelyn glances up. The soldiers have leapt to their feet, and farther up two riders are barrelling down the circuitous mountain path towards the camp.

 

As they near, Evelyn picks out a third person, bulky even though slumped on the front of the saddle of one of the riders. Horns curl atop his head, pale white hair a stark contrast to his ashen skin.

 

The horses are brought to a halt only mere paces before they nearly trample the fire, snorting in exhaustion and stamping their hooves agitatedly. The riders, save the unconscious qunari, are wide-eyed and trembling.

 

“We - we --” the first gasps, but is unable to say anything more.

 

“There was a survivor. He....” the second rider shakes his head. “He  _ stepped out of the Fade!”  _

 

Stunned silence greets the statement.

 

To step out of the Fade - Evelyn’s mind whirs. It was possible to physically enter the Fade (the Hero of Fereldan had done as much, at Redcliffe), but it required substantial lyrium and the talents of several senior enchanters. To do such unaided was - unheard of.

 

“Has he been possessed?” the elf, Vaelin, finally asks. It’s likely the most practical of first reactions, his level-headedness impressive. His hand immediately drifts to the hilt of the dagger at his hip.

 

The second rider frowns, shifting so he’s sitting slightly farther from the qunari. “He fainted as soon as he came out of the rift.”

 

“That’s not a definitive no,” Evelyn mutters, stepping closer, eyes trained on the sleeping man’s face. He appears to be sleeping fitfully, expression twitching into a grimace. His features aren’t warped, and the mage doesn’t necessarily sense anything demonic from him. But there is...something. Something off.

 

The first rider watches her, then blurts out, “His - his hand!”

 

There’s a crackling sound, and the qunari’s right palm glows an eerie green, the color of the hole in the sky. His face contorts in pain as whatever magic it is ripples up his forearm. 

 

“It’s involuntary,” Evelyn remarks, mostly to herself. The magic isn’t focused outward like an attack or even a defensive bolt would be. 

 

Vaelin’s eyes narrow. “He is the only survivor - and uninjured at that - of an attack that killed everyone gathered at the Conclave.” He stares, brow wrinkled and lips pressed in a thin line. “Take him to the dungeon.”

 

The second rider nods, grim, and urges his horse on.

 

Vaelin regards the first rider, who has grown sallow. “Get down,” he orders, and when the soldier all but jumps from the saddle, the elf takes the reins. “I will inform the Left Hand. Be on your guard. And,” he pauses, gaze falling back to the mage. “Well met, …?”

 

“Trevelyan,” Evelyn supplies. The Circle had taken to referring to her by her surname, and by now her first name felt odd, rusty from disuse and too intimate on stranger’s tongues.

 

He nods and spurs the horse into a gallop.

 

Evelyn watches the descent of the second rider and the survivor, mind racing. A qunari who stepped out of a rift, possessing a strange mark, being held prisoner by the servants of a ghostly Divine, while a world tentatively holding its breath for peace between mages and Templars no doubt erupts into chaos?

 

She cannot walk away from  _ that _ .

* * *

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

* * *

By the time Evelyn reaches the village, Haven is a powder keg for a second explosion.

 

The villagers - a ragtag mix of faithful, outcasts, and others - are sullen and suspicious, casting hard looks toward the stone-brick Chantry where the qunari was taken.

 

The village itself is cramped and bleak, as if it had been forgotten at the feet of the imposing Frostback mountains, a home fit only for the desperate. The Chantry stands sentinel over it all, huts and tents ringing around a central courtyard.

 

Evelyn wanders her way in slowly, cautious. There are scant few places outsiders are welcome in Thedas now, and if she means to discover what’s happening here, it will require a delicate touch.

 

“You seem lost, friend,” a voice calls out, and Evelyn turns to see a blonde man approaching with a practiced smile and shrewd eyes. He carries no weapons and his physique is decidedly unathletic, so she deduces he is no soldier.

 

Evelyn considers her options for the briefest of moments, then glances back at the Chantry. “I’m looking for Ser Vaelin,” she lies steadily, with a vexed frown. “He was to take me to the Left Hand.”

 

So much for delicacy - but the Maker favors the bold?

 

The man blinks, looking her up and down skeptically. “Vaelin - ”

 

“Has become otherwise occupied, yes, I am aware,” Evelyn cuts in dryly, arching a brow. “The matter…” She pretends to parse her words carefully. “Cannot wait for his return. Perhaps  _ you  _ could lead me?”

 

The man crosses his arms, and after a pause shrugs. “Most people prefer to see the Ambassador,” he says. “But sure, follow me.”

 

Evelyn smiles in relief. Her gamble worked.

 

* * *

  
  


They’re a short distance away when the Chantry’s heavy wooden door opens, and out steps the qunari, guarded by a dour-faced raven-haired warrior. The qunari stares, slack-jawed, at the rift in the sky.

 

“We call it ‘the Breach,’” Evelyn can faintly hear the warrior explain. Her words are matter-of-fact, but brittle, angry. “It is a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It is not the only such rift, just the largest. All caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

 

The qunari shakes his head. “An explosion...can do that?”

 

The warrior’s eyes narrow, and she turns back to him. “This one did. Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

 

At that moment, the Breach glows, magic crackling out of it as it expands. The mark on the qunari’s hand answers in kind, and he screams in pain, falling to his knees. 

 

“It’s spreading,” Evelyn realizes aloud, as the warrior kneels and echoes the sentiment.

 

“The mark may be the key to stopping this, but we don’t have much time.”

 

The qunari closes his eyes, breath ragged, and sighs. “I understand.” He opens his eyes again, golden gaze resolved. “This stops, whatever it takes.”

 

It’s a sobering moment. Evelyn hopes, as he regains his footing and is escorted out of the village, that he hasn’t stepped out of the Fade only to give his life back to it.

 

Her guide shakes his head. “If you’d told me a day ago that the fate of the world rests in a qunari’s cursed hand…”

 

“Strange times,” Evelyn remarks noncommittally, watching as the villagers scowl at the man about to risk his life to potentially save them all.

 

“The end of times, some are saying,” he grumbles, leading on at last.

 

* * *

 

The Chantry is beautiful inside, in a way that only truly hallowed spaces are, washed with warmth in torchlight. Here, at least, there are Chantry sisters, though prayers have ceased falling from their lips as they whisper fervently to each other.

 

“Sister!” the man greets with a grin too perfunctory to be saccharine. “Have you by chance seen where the Left Hand stormed off to? She has a visitor.” He gestures a hand in the mage’s direction.

 

One of the Sisters, an older woman with the beginnings of wrinkles hugging the corners of her eyes, nods. “You’ve just missed her. Sister Nightingale left to go to the forward camp near the Breach.” By the way the woman flushes after she says it, this is information she’s obtained via eavesdropping. Evelyn knows the look well from her years in the Circle.

 

Damn.

 

“Right, then,” the man claps his hands together, glancing at Evelyn in askance. “If it’s urgent, I suppose you could charge on after her?”

 

Evelyn smiles dimly, considering for the first time that perhaps this man isn’t as dull-witted as he initially seemed. “I know my limits, ser. A mountaintop rife with roaming demons is among them.” 

 

Of course, this was after she had already wandered said mountaintop, but surely her learning methods cannot be held against her.

 

The man hums in agreement, unperturbed. He waves his arm in a ‘follow me’ motion. “So, the Ambassador after all. This way, then.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's short, sorry - it's so much easier to write everything scene by scene, like how the cutscenes are in the game (aka i'm lazy). 
> 
> the blonde guy is what's-his-face, the merchant. i do not like him, in case it wasn't glaringly obvious.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

The Ambassador in question is relegated to what is scarcely more than a storage room in the far back of the drafty building. 

 

The man knocks, and then steps aside with a too-showy-to-be-gallant bow, leaving Evelyn to her own.

 

“Thank you, ser,” she has the grace to say in parting.

 

Evelyn pushes open the door after a polite moment, wincing as it creaks loudly. She hasn’t a clue what she’ll say to whomever she’ll find inside, but the thrill of leaping into the unknown that now buzzed through her veins had always been hard for her to resist.

 

She walks into a scene already in progress.

 

The room is mostly empty - there’s a large desk a few paces from the door, littered with parchment. Another desk sits in the opposing corner, smaller and adorned with...more grisly knick knacks (rather vicious-looking fangs, as well as a splotch of something too dark to be blood). Candles are strategically positioned to provide occupants with ample reading light. And - 

 

Perched atop a tall bookcase along the opposite wall is a large raven, preening its feathers indifferently. The room’s sole occupant, a woman with honeyed skin and golden dress, reaches for it without success.

 

She huffs. “Minaeve, this  _ creature,”  _ it’s apparent she’d rather use a different descriptor, her accent clipped with annoyance, “refuses to- ah.” The woman turns around, dark brows arching when she sees Evelyn. “My apologies, you - I expected someone else.”

 

Evelyn smiles, genuine. “That’s fair, I was expected by someone else.” She tilts her head towards the bird. “It looks like I’ve come at the right time, would you like a hand?”

 

The woman sighs. “I believe it would be glad to take just that,” she warns, glaring at the bird indignantly.

 

Evelyn takes a half-step closer. The raven stills, eyeing her warily.

 

_ I’ll light your tail feathers on fire if you try,  _ Evelyn thinks, and the bird snaps its beak.

 

Evelyn has only the most basic experience with animals. The Ostwick Circle, while lax in comparison to others, restricted the mages’ access to the rookery, particularly after the attack on the Kirkwall Chantry. They had, however, sheltered a stray cat, a shy calico that the apprentices tamed with table scraps.

 

Ah - food. The eternal motivator.

 

“I’ve heard,” Evelyn says conversationally, fishing through her pack for the jerky or bread she had wrapped inside somewhere. “That they can be rather finicky.” She had heard no such thing, but it seemed like something that could be conveniently true. “But I suppose you can’t begrudge him, cooped up in a strange new place, and...rattled from recent events.”

 

Come to think of it, Evelyn doesn’t recall seeing a single bird flying after the explosion. She wonders if it was just the noise that frightened them off, or if they could sense danger in the warped air.

 

The ambassador’s expression tightens. “As are we all.”

 

Right. More plying.

 

“The Divine was an inspiration. All of Thedas will mourn her loss.” Evelyn’s fingers snag on the jerky at last, and she tears off an unfortunately large piece. The raven tilts its head. “And perhaps the tide of history will as well.”

 

The other woman steps aside, making a hum of consideration, her gaze on the mage growing curious, scrutinizing. “Divine Justinia’s legacy will live on. It would be the ultimate dishonor, to allow peace to be sacrificed on the altar of bloodshed.”

 

Interesting. Evelyn has doubts that the call for peace will be joined by many. Justinia’s Conclave had been a last rite to the Maker.

 

She palms the bit of jerky, offering it up to the raven, who opens its beak threateningly as her hand nears. After a beat, it swiftly darts its head forward, devouring the treat in a single bite. Evelyn flinches.

 

“Good, isn’t it? Much better than a rat, or whatever it is you lot eat,” she murmurs. The bird caws in answer, fidgeting from foot to foot and glancing at her in interest. 

 

Evelyn breaks off another bit, this time holding it close to her left shoulder. “You’ll have to work for this one.”

 

As she waits for the bird to decide how badly it would like seconds, she returns to their conversation. “Being the sole defenders of peace is a righteous cause, I commend you for it.”

 

The ambassador seems intrigued, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Thank you…?”

 

“Trevelyan.” The raven takes that moment to glide down and claim residence of Evelyn’s shoulder. It inhales the tidbit of meat. Evelyn reaches up slowly and attempts to stroke its feathers. The raven squacks, pecking her. Her fingers smart, the wound near to drawing blood, but defiantly she pets the beast anyway. After a second, it fluffs its feathers, allowing her to scratch the back of its head almost like a cat.

 

“Lady Trevelyan.” She nods in greeting, glancing at the bird apprehensively. Evelyn is surprised to hear the title. This ambassador is well informed, then. “Josephine Montiliyet. I...serve the diplomatic interests of Divine Justinia’s cause.”

 

So, Evelyn is clear at this point that these are not mere servants of the Chantry, seeing as they refuse to term themselves as such even after the Divine’s death. As a one-off, she would chalk it up to grief, but as a pattern… 

 

“I’m curious, Lady Trevelyan, what makes you think we will stand alone?” It’s a probing question asked with no obvious teeth, but as a way to gauge the mage’s position - her knowledge and opinions belie her allegiances.

 

“Well, aside from the fact that both the Templars and the mages will believe the opposing one committed the attack in a bad faith escalation of aggression,” Evelyn moves to scratch the raven under the chin, and it closes its eyes in appreciation. “The vision of peace that gave rise to the Conclave was uniquely the Divine’s, not the Chantry’s. Without her efforts at White Spire…” All of the Val Royeaux mages would’ve been slaughtered by the Templars, an echo of every Circle mage’s ultimate fear. “It’s difficult to imagine another Divine doing the same, and now the Chantry is in want of a new Divine. Whoever it is will come to power in a time of new and fractured politics, where bold action has been met by such terrible loss.” Evelyn shrugs her other shoulder. “Peace has yet to be the expedient option, Lady Montiliyet. And now we come to a time where fear threatens to overwhelm virtue.”

 

Lady Montiliyet blinks, and her lips twist into a slow smile. “I see I am not the only diplomat in the room.”

 

Evelyn is what her situation has made her: a mage in an impossible situation, using what she can to help her fellow mages survive. But that is too macabre a sentiment for this conversation.

 

She smiles in return. “I often sat in on mediations between the factions of my Circle. I was to attend the negotiations at the Conclave, but a few of the mages...took ill, and I was delayed.” In truth, a fight had broken out, with one of the more adamant seperatist mages had burst into a fit of rage, and - advertently or not - attacked the others. Evelyn wasn’t the only healer, but of those who had made the trek, she was the most gifted, so she’d agreed to lag behind while the others continued on. Which had saved her life. If only - 

 

Evelyn feels the tell-tale stinging in the back of her eyes, so she closes them, taking a steadying breath.

 

“He’s ready, I think. For your letter.” She turns, careful to not jolt the now contented bird.

 

Lady Montiliyet’s eyes have grown sad, but she rouses herself. “Oh. Yes.” She steps hesitantly closer, parchment crinkling in her grip. The raven gets antsy as the ambassador ties it around the bird’s foot, so Evelyn moves her hand so it’s between the bird’s beak and the ambassador’s hand.

 

When she’s done, Lady Montiliyet quickly retreats, seeming glad to put distance between herself and the raven. “Thank you,” she says sincerely. “Where it not for your help, I might have been haranguing that bird until its owner returned.”

 

Evelyn chuckles. “Of course.” She wants to ask about the letter (what ties are they drawing on? what are they planning?), but she’s maxed out on her polite prying, and that would be too much. “In truth, I’m waiting for someone to return as well, so I’m happy to be put to use.”

 

Lady Montiliyet inclines her head, brows raising. “Oh?”

 

“For the Left Hand. I’ve been told…” Evelyn avoids pronouns, uncertain of even the basics of who this ‘Left Hand’ is, “that it might be awhile. Though waiting in exchange for the fate of the world seems a rather fair bargain.”

 

Lady Montiliyet hums in agreement, though a worried frown works its way onto her face. “Maker willing, she will be back before long. The journey is not long, but…” She’s quiet a fretful moment, then snaps herself out of it. “I can give you a tour of Haven, if you’d like?”

 

She’ll be going that way anyway, and if they go together, Evelyn can carry the raven. It’s not what she’d said, and most likely not what she’d meant, but Evelyn finds the thought amusing even if untrue.

 

“That would be lovely, Lady Montiliyet, thank you,” she accepts graciously.

 

“Right. So you’ve seen my office - I share a space with Minaeve, our creature researcher…”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk *shrug emoji* next chapter leliana is back


End file.
